


once upon an autumn day

by seventhstar



Series: a covenant with a bright blazing star [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha Katsuki Yuuri, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Regency, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Omega Victor Nikiforov, POV Katsuki Yuuri, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 14:39:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12367899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: As they walk round the pond, the grass crunching under their feet, Viktor lays his hand on Yuuri’s arm. Yuuri tucks it into the crook of his elbow, acutely aware of how cold Viktor’s fingers are, even through his gloves. He wonders why; Viktor’s clothes are well-made and in good condition.They do not speak much as they finish their tour of the pond. Viktor allows Yuuri to lead him towards the house again without complaint; a strand of silvery hair has fallen down from under his hat, and cuts across his eyes, down his chin, to touch his shoulder. It sways as he walks. It catches the light. Yuuri has no hope of not looking at it.[part of an ongoing series of fics, telling the story of poor and scandalous trademan's son viktor nikiforov's marriage of convenience to the reclusive lord katsuki]





	once upon an autumn day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spookyfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/gifts).



> This is part of an ongoing series. I've working on this AU for a while, and when I realized each of the scenes I've written was distinct stylistically, I decided to post them as separate fics rather than as chapters.
> 
> The end result is this: I'll be updating the series periodically, and the fics will be arranged chronologically, but I'm not going to write them that way, so you may end up reading things out of order.

Debt.

There is little else in the letters and accounts his parents left behind. Yuuri, having fired his parent’s dishonest steward, is tasked with returning the estate to its former glory, and how far away that glory seems in the face of the piles of creditor’s bills. Bad weather, plague, drought, every possible setback struck while his parents were alive. It was borrow money or sell, and his father would never have countenanced selling even an acre of land.

Neither will Yuuri. And with the fifty thousand pounds released to him by Viktor’s aunt, he will have no need to. All their debts can be paid, with money left over to finance much needed improvements and to diversify their investments beyond the agricultural.

For the first time, being seated in his father’s chair fills him with more hope than dread. Indeed, it may all be salvageable. The only downside is that the fifty thousand pounds is attached to—

“Good morning.” Viktor appears in the doorway of the study. He is wearing green; his hair has been piled on top of his head. “How are you, dear one?”

How Viktor can call him ‘dear one’ which such sincerity, after only a hasty wedding and a lengthy carriage ride’s worth of conversation, Yuuri cannot imagine. He can barely bring himself to call _Viktor_ by his first name.

“I am fine.” Yuuri looks down at his desk. “Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough.”

“Good.” Yuuri clears his throat. “I—”

“Would you like to—”

Viktor has both hands on the edge of the desk, body bent towards Yuuri. He’s smiling, but there is an anxious edge to it. Yuuri licks his dry lips and gestures for him to finish his sentence.

“I thought you would wish to spend the day with me.”

“Ah.” Yuuri feels a flutter of guilt in his belly. He remembers in exquisite detail the exact expression Viktor wore last night when Yuuri sent him to bed—to his own bed, in a guest bedroom, far away from Yuuri. There was no question of their—Yuuri would not have dreamt of imposing himself upon Viktor and—well, regardless, Yuuri thinks, he can’t ignore Viktor for the next year. That is pure cowardice. Viktor lives here now, and they will have to get on. “Of course. I’ll—” he scrambles for some activity they can perform together, “give you a tour of the house.”

“Wonderful.”

“Have you had breakfast?”

“Not yet. I thought we might dine together.” Viktor shrugs. “Besides, I do not know where the dining room is.”

Yuuri nods. He sets down his pen, absently spells his scattered papers into order, and edges around Viktor to the door, being careful not to touch him. He stops in the doorway.

“Come,” he says.

Viktor follows him.

The house is not large, compared to the homes of some of Yuuri’s peers. And since his parents’ deaths, many of the upstairs rooms have been closed up. His ancestors kept much of the decor and architecture of the house in the style of their homeland, with only the modifications over the years to account for advances in domestic magics. It is not fashionable or ornate.

Yuuri has studiously avoided the details of Viktor’s past indiscretions, but he does know the name of his most prominent ex-lover, and he has had the misfortune of seeing their heavily gilded, uselessly fine home. He watches Viktor for some sign of disappointment. He half expects Viktor to suggest changes as they walk.

But Viktor seems genuine, if effusive, in his praise of Yuuri’s home.

“It’s charming,” Viktor says of the sliding doors into the dining room. “What flowers are these?” He taps the painting on the door of the original Hasetsu, the seat of Yuuri’s ancestors in their home country. It depicts the river flowing into the sea, and the cherry blossoms in full bloom upon the banks, the petals falling as thickly as snow in winter.

“Cherry blossoms,” Yuuri says. “We have a grove here, on the grounds, that is very pretty in the spring.”

“I look forward to it.”

“You care for flowers, then?”

“I miss them. The gardens in the city are never so fine as those in the country. And my stays in the country have not permitted much time outside the house.”

That, Yuuri thinks, is a very pretty way of saying that Viktor’s past patrons have preferred to keep him in their bedchambers. He wonders where Viktor acquired the taste for flowers, then; perhaps he lived in the country as a child, or perhaps he simply wishes for what he has not had. Yuuri’s knowledge of how Viktor lived as a child is scant. He knows that his parents were not gently born, and that Viktor’s sire was in trade and not particularly good at it.

He lets Viktor go into the dining room first, and is relieved to see that neither Mari nor Minako are there. He has not the courage to face them on an empty stomach. Mari might spare him, droll as she is, but Minako will certainly not approve of Yuuri bringing home a spouse such as Viktor, and she is prone to unannounced visits.

He dreads disappointing her, now that his mother and father are gone.

The breakfast spread is much richer than usual. Yuuri reaches for a plate, but Viktor is quick to take it from his hands and serve him. He piles Yuuri’s plate high with rolls and cheese, and pours him a cup of coffee; for himself, he takes only half a roll and tea.

Viktor heats the coffee before he hands it over; steams curls off of the surface as he cradles the cup in his hands.

“Is it not to your liking?”

“I am not in the habit of breakfasting,” Viktor says.

He nibbles at his roll while Yuuri tucks in. Yuuri is surprised to see that he eats so little, considering Viktor is both taller and broader than Yuuri is, and ate only a few mouthfuls during their one stop during the journey from town.

Does he think that Yuuri will begrudge him meals, after their conversation yesterday?

Yuuri blanches. “Are you sure you will not eat more?”

“Yes.”

“My sister will have eaten already,” Yuuri says. “And Lady Minako does not usually visit until after breakfast. So you must not think that there is any shortage. You may eat as much as you please.”

Viktor’s smile looks a little strained as he refuses. Perhaps he is accustomed to finer fare.

Once their plates are empty, Yuuri leads Viktor through the rooms on the ground floor. There is a more formal dining room; parlor and sitting rooms; the music and dance room where Minako taught a young Yuuri ballet and the piano. Viktor, Yuuri finds, does not play, although his mother did. Yuuri means to stop only briefly outside the library, but Viktor barges in and wanders around, stopping seemingly at random to browse.

Yuuri tries to follow which books interest him, in the hopes of understanding him better, but he cannot make it out. Viktor pauses to look at poetry, at farming texts, at Yuuri’s collection of magical theory books from school. He takes off his gloves to touch them; his fingers linger on their spines delicately. He has very white hands.

“Marvelous,” Viktor murmurs.

“This is our family collection.”

“The work of many generations, I imagine.”

“Yes.”

Yuuri does not take Viktor upstairs, to see the guest rooms or the family wing. Instead he leads Viktor out into the back garden. Viktor fetches his hat and coat first, the collar of which is lined with thick white fur. The air outside is bracing, the plants mostly brown and dead. Yuuri finds the grounds particularly beautiful in fall, with the piles of gold and red leaves, and the bare branches of trees stark against the sky. He does not know if Viktor will share this taste for bleakness, though, so he offers to lead him to the pond.

“Does it freeze?”

“In the winter, sometimes.”

“I suppose it does not snow so much here as it does in the north.”

“No, the winters are more temperate in Hasetsu.”

“A pity.” Viktor tips his head back towards the grey sky. “I miss the snow.”

“Why would you miss snow?”

Yuuri’s face reddens; he curses himself for his clumsy tongue. The purpose of this exercise to increase his and Viktor’s mutual comfort, not to reveal himself as an idiot who has no idea how to speak.

A strange look crosses Viktor’s face. He finally replies that he has a horror of the summer sun and growing brown and coarse, and then begins questioning Yuuri about a pair of birds perched in a nearby tree. They walk down the well-worn path to the shore of the pond, where weeping willows dip their branches into the water and the dock Mari built one summer still stands, albeit a little crookedly.

The water is still and deep.

“Do you swim?”

“In these clothes? I think not.” Yuuri’s expression must be terrible, he thinks, because Viktor hurries to add, “Not since I left home.”

“Where did you—never mind.”

“Where did I live?”

“It’s not important.” Yuuri curses himself for even asking. He doubts Viktor wants to constantly be reminded of the difference in their stations.

“…of course.”

As they walk round the pond, the grass crunching under their feet, Viktor lays his hand on Yuuri’s arm. Yuuri tucks it into the crook of his elbow, acutely aware of how cold Viktor’s fingers are, even through his gloves. He wonders why; Viktor’s clothes are well-made and in good condition.

They do not speak much as they finish their tour of the pond. Viktor allows Yuuri to lead him towards the house again without complaint; a strand of silvery hair has fallen down from under his hat, and cuts across his eyes, down his chin, to touch his shoulder. It sways as he walks. It catches the light. Yuuri has no hope of not looking at it.

“Woof!”

Vicchan dashes up the path towards them. He is a small dog, his fur curly and brown, his tongue lolling with happiness as his paws dig into the dead earth. Once the snow begins to fall and the ground freezes, Yuuri will keep him indoors, where he will be in no danger from the cold. But for now, Vicchan has the run of the grounds, and is very pleased by it.

Yuuri bends down to meet Vicchan’s frantic approach, smiling, and then makes the fatal error of looking up at Viktor’s longing expression.

Viktor, whose dog is still in town with a friend. The letter to Yuuri’s solicitor to arrange for her retrieval is sitting half-written on Yuuri’s desk.

“Woof,” Vicchan barks, and he runs past Yuuri to butt at Viktor’s boots.

“Oh, what a sweet boy you are.” Viktor drops to his knees, heedless of the dirt. He scoops Vicchan up and lets the dog lick his face without flinching. “Hello, my darling. Who are you?”

“He is called Vicchan,” Yuuri says. Vicchan is a shy dog. Yuuri and Mari are the only humans he allows to pet him. He prefers to stay away from the servants and from guests, a face which always gave a child Yuuri pleasure, as it meant he was assured Vicchan’s company.

Until today, it would seem.

“Well, he is perfect.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, nonsensically, as if any credit towards Vicchan’s perfection can be attributed to him. He waits for Vicchan to squirm free, but he does not, and after a few moments of silence, Viktor’s chin resting on top of Vicchan’s furry head, Yuuri mumbles, “We should return to the house.”

“Such a good dog,” Viktor says, kissing Vicchan’s nose. He looks sweet. Yuuri cannot fathom that this man is the same one known by reputation as a—a person of ill repute and loose morals. He cannot reconcile this Viktor with the one described by his aunt over the marriage contract, back when all Yuuri knew of Viktor was the look of his signature in a beautifully slanted hand.

_I am afraid he thinks nothing of deception, and is willful. Indeed if you were of the first circles I would not dare propose any match between you. But out of love for his mother, who was my dear sister, I can only hope that marriage to a respectable man will improve him. You have money and station enough to please him, I think. Take care that you are not drawn in by his machinations._

“Can we not see the rest of the park?”

Yuuri flushes. He would like to, but the estate requires his attention. “Another time.”

If Viktor is trying to draw him in, Yuuri thinks, he is doing a superlative job of it. He is very pleasant, and Yuuri’s dog likes him, and so far all he seems to desire is company and free reign of the grounds and library.

Perhaps this year of marriage will be well after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Here you are, readers. Backstory!
> 
> Comment please!


End file.
